Like this:

If we were having coffee, I would tell you, after silencing my cell phone, that my dear aunt, the last of her generation in my family, died this week. Perhaps I will be able to say these words clearly. Or at least try to. But I suspect that my voice will quiver and tears will flood my eyes and spill.

And I would tell you she was 96. And I hope you would refrain from platitudes because I have had those spoken to me before when my pain was high and deep, the loss raw, and I realized there can be an actual breaking sensation in the heart. And in the face of those platitudes which hurt more than helped, quickly ended the conversation and walked away instead of saying, “Shut up!” or something worse.

I would tell you of her faith, her wisdom, her amazing memory, sharp wit, and sense of humor. And that she was a widow for 52 years. And that her passing made me feel that I was losing my Mother and Father again, for she was, in addition to being my beloved aunt, my link to them and my history like no one else can be.

If we were having coffee, I would tell you, after silencing my cell phone, that my dear aunt, the last of her generation in my family, died this week. And although I believe I will see her again, as I share this chapter of my story, I will weep.

Like this:

If we were having coffee/tea, I would ask you about your day, week, or season of life. And I would have silenced my phone. And I would strive to give you my undivided attention. And I would remind myself to truly listen to you instead of just waiting to speak. And I would try to refrain from giving advice unless you ask for it and, even if you do, I would want to first empathize with your struggle and try to be a sounding board or help you brainstorm solutions. And if I give advice, I would try to do so tentatively, couching my words in questions, and not as gospel, as in the “from-G0d’s-mouth-to-my-ears” variety. If we were having coffee/tea, I hope you would feel heard and cared for when our time together came to an end.